


where did the party go

by 24601lesbians



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, M/M, Magic, and lost shit, gerard interprets dreams, mikey sees auras, patrick and ray are witches, pete makes charms, there are rules okay, welcome to the island of misfit toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 17:10:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7516369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24601lesbians/pseuds/24601lesbians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows to center himself before he even daydreams, which is automatic after the practice that comes from zoning out when he was in school. He always makes sure that there are three stars drawn on himself when he eats anything cooked with lemon. Bottom line: Joe knows how to keep himself where he needs to be.<br/>Which is why, as he jerks to his feet and puts some decent distance between himself and the gray water, he says firmly to himself that "Dreamers don't end up on an island for the shit people lose, okay, the island is for things."</p>
            </blockquote>





	where did the party go

Joe wakes up on a beach, cold and shivering. 

This kind of shit is what the hedgewitch two floors down always warned him about. "Joe, be careful where you dream—shit, drop the anise and pass me the bay leaves, _like now_ —or you'll wake up fucked up." Patrick looked fond when he said it weeks ago, if kind of distracted by following the poultice recipe Ray had composed the night before. And Joe had passed him the bay leaves and brushed it off, because dream-related stuff was more Gerard's bag than anyone else's. He did know a lot, and Joe trusted him as much as he had Patrick, but nothing had happened before. All he did was take a nap after he got home from work.  
Usually the location-switching, or body transfers, or sudden language shifts started happening when people were young. Ten-year-olds don't have it as hard as first-graders, who are still being taught the basics of protecting themselves. He knows to center himself before he even daydreams, which is automatic after the practice that comes from zoning out when he was in school. He always makes sure that there are three stars drawn on himself when he eats anything cooked with lemon. Bottom line: Joe knows how to keep himself where he needs to be.

Which is why, as he jerks to his feet and puts some decent distance between himself and the gray water, he says firmly to himself that "Dreamers don't end up on an island for the shit people lose, okay, the island is for _things_." But walking around for hours with breaks cut short by anxiety proves it an island.   
Everything under and between the low trees certainly looks lost, too. He's already seen training wheels, a couple of posters for dogs, a battered mailbox, and an assload of action figures.

Circling part of the island again, he keeps his attention at the horizon. There isn't fog, exactly, but there's something he feels more than sees. The sky is gray, which isn't helping much, and the shade of the sky leaves the water looking more gray than blue. 

The weak light of the sun is fading a bit, so Joe arranges a paint-stained tarp to sleep under. He's already covered in sand, anyway. Blinded, too, for a moment, because in front of him is a brilliant sunset, more scarlet and soft purple and gold than he's seen in his life. It fades away a little too quickly into night.

 x

It kind of takes Pete a little while to learn that Joe's gone. They both work in different parts of town, and more often than not, Pete stays late because he has a breakthrough five minutes before he closes shop. Technically, it isn't really his shop. All he did was tack himself onto his neighbors’ little business and pick up on imbuing things with charms, which is a difficult business to keep going on its own, especially for free, the way Pete does; still, half of Gerard's customers come in with a pocket-sized object and wait for Pete to say, "Oh, hey, can I have a look at this?" before frowning and handing it back. Most of those people feel compelled to keep the charms he intends for long-term use.  
The other employee, Mikey, will give him aura play-by-play as people walk in, just in case Pete feels like fixing someone up with a little helpful energy. He'll follow the usual how-can-I-help-you with a muttered "yellow and sparking, go easy," or "normal bubble, there's nothing you need to do." Depending on what help a person needs, he'll leave the shelves alone and approach them. It's a good system.

Pete knows what he usually looks like because he asked Mikey once. He's a lot of red with green and purple, and little whirls of steam-looking stuff near his hands. He understands that he's mostly tired, and it makes sense that he would have threads of curiosity and friendliness. As for the steam staying around his hands, he taps them and makes shapes when he's distracted or unfocused. He’s glad it makes sense.

"And before you ask," Mikey had said. "I'm made of mostly the same stuff." He didn't say anything about the little bits of pale blue hope that had been showing up lately. Pete didn't need to know.

But, as he watches the brothers prepare to leave, Patrick comes blazing toward the door and Mikey winces, like he’s too bright. Something’s wrong. He gets worked up before Patrick’s even inside, and Mikey feels a little guilty as he does it, but wills away some of the newly-turned-metallic pink and orange energy (nausea from surprise and overwhelming concern) to calm him down, then takes care of some of the yellow from Patrick. It just comes back.

Pete checks his watch. It’s 10:30.

“Have you seen Joe?”

“No, I haven’t been back to the apartment since I left, before lunch.”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. He always comes in, Pete.” Patrick looks nervous. “Even if he can’t chat with Ray about riffs.”

“I know,” Pete says as gently as he can. 

Gerard is biting the nails of one hand as he takes it in; Mikey is thinking about something else. Yes, the time before someone can be declared missing was changed when all of the magical happenings were on the rise, but 24 hours was only applicable to people under a certain age who had been missing more than once (a rule introduced when younger children started vanishing randomly at the beginning of this mess). They’re on their own for a while.

“Do you want to maybe take a look at some dreams? Maybe laying them out will—”

Mikey cuts him off. “Gerard.”

“He’s just trying to help,” Patrick says, frustrated. Mikey sees the green of interest twisting through all of his sharp, nervous yellow.

Gerard unlocks the big room at the back. “I don’t know any seers—yes, Pete, I meant both of you in here—which is kind of a shock because of what I do, you know? And I should’ve met somebody by now,” he waits for Patrick to pull a reluctant Pete (whose aura is creeping back into shades of orange) through the doorway. “Who gets real visions through dreams. The stats are updated all the time and I keep looking for signs, but.” Mikey’s eyebrow twitches and Gerard looks down. “Yeah. Who’s going first?”

x

When Joe wakes up, there’s a fresh carpet of pens and pencils and stuffed animals under the trees around him. 

He didn’t dream.

If dreaming is how he got here, how is he supposed to leave? He didn’t do anything stupid before he went to bed yesterday, and today he’s not only here but  _ he didn’t dream _ . Miserably, he rebuilds his nest of decent-smelling lost hoodies, replacing the few that people seem to have found.

He hasn’t been able to find anything good to fool around with except for some beaten-up peg winders and a rubber duck and some kickass rainbow shoelaces that are still in the package. He keeps finding bobby pins in his shoes, along with sand. He isn’t really sure why there are so many, but it's almost like they’re breeding. They’re  _ colonies _ . While Joe was away exploring, his tarp disappeared, but at this point, he’s not fazed, just really fucking hungry.

“I cook things for a living, man,” he says to the sky. “This is in bad taste.”

He almost smiles at the pun.

x

Patrick comes home itching to do something, but knows it’s a bad thing to get into working on now when he’s this tired. Part of him is so  _ awake _ , though. Joe is just gone. He’s visited Patrick almost every day for two years, with the exception of visiting family out west, but he’s always mentioned those plans a week in advance. He doesn’t just leave.

He thinks about last night’s dream, the one that Gerard eased into focus in his mind with careful questions about details. The first part was all loose chains looped prettily through trees, and dream instinct said that they weren't malignant at all, just long, shining necklace chain. Something nice to look at and lead him places. The meaning of the maze of semi-transparent walls, however, was kind of really fucking obvious.

Patrick has to find him.

Pete is walking around the tiny apartment kitchen in mindless loops.

He remembers talking to Patrick on the way back to their building, but Pete can’t switch gears to Joe’s other best friend because he’s stuck on the part where Joe isn’t leaning around the wall to good-naturedly tell him to go the fuck to sleep. And the fact that Gerard makes him really uncomfortable for some reason, but mostly that his dream was so clear. 

Patrick in a pile of laundry that met his height, wading through and looking for something. Pete joking that if he’s looking for a movie ticket, he should just ask Joe to take him again. Patrick correcting him after swatting him with a random shirt: “ _ I’m _ taking  _ Joe _ . Do you know where he is?” He’s so focused on hunting down the reason that’s just out of reach. He doesn’t see the shadow on the wall until Patrick vanishes into the heap, which spits out Joe’s newest Iron Maiden t-shirt.

x

Joe almost trips over a footlong that’s inside a neon green beach tote, and while he’s confused about how it got lost, he’s ecstatic that there’s a huge sandwich in it. He even likes almost everything on it; as soon as he picks off the olives, it goes straight to his stomach. Lost forever.

x

The next day, Patrick immediately pounces on Ray’s attention before he even gets out his own kit. 

“He’s gone, Ray. And I’m only a _ healer_.” Patrick finishes with a meaningful look.

This convinces him to pull out the bigass notebook, a black thing made for five subjects. Patrick hasn’t seen him get this one out. Sure, he’ll use all the comp books in a day even if there are only five regulars that come in with appointments, but this one stays on the shelf all year long and they dust around it. He hovers while Ray consults the lines of handwritten instructions, then sends him to Andy with a list. “I’ll get the rest,” he says, already distracted.

Andy’s gift started showing when he was twelve, the earliest one that Patrick knows of. It’s kind of hard to hide ridiculously uncontrollable green thumb. He’d seen it happen in a matter of minutes; he had had to fight a smile while Andy raised an eyebrow at him and Patrick’s mom’s tiny mint plants behind Andy growing toward him like he was the sun. He’s gotten a little better about staying in control since then, but the small smirk he wears when he hears the grumbles of people in front of the apartment building trimming the trees shows how comfortable he is.

The list Patrick has ready for him is small, but the items might be in short supply. He drums his fingers on the bench beside the counter while he sits out Andy’s muffled “ _ Hang on! _ ” from the back. The earthy, grounding smells of the hostas next to him are nice on his frayed nerves.

The next thing he knows, Andy and his filthy work apron are standing in front of him, one hip cocked while he reads the list pulled from Patrick’s hand.

“It’s a Lone Doe Pillar for Joe, isn’t it?” he asks quietly. At Patrick’s questioning look, he evens his stance out. “You’re fidgety and your forehead’s all.” He waves his hands around. “Ray texted and said you would be in. I already got half a pound of the black hollyhock ground up for you, but the gingko clipping needs to be done by you. Did you bring your copper scissors?”

Patrick pats down his pockets. “Yeah.”

After he finds a good chunk of perfect gingko leaves to lop off in the back, he picks up the teal pot that the six-month-old weeping oak is in. Hopefully he can help Ray get all the timing and the details right. Andy stops him right before he's out the door. “Wait, I forgot something.”

Patrick squints at him. Andy doesn’t forget things, Andy is more organized than anyone he knows. But here he comes, a cloth bag in one hand. “Give this rabbitbrush to Ray for me?”

He nods slowly, adjusting the items in his hands to make room for the bag. “It’s a sign of goodwill for some fertilizer.” 

Patrick notes that he’s  _ mumbling _ . And has the barest hint of red in his face. Ho-ly shit.

He doesn’t say a word about it though.

x

Joe doesn’t know what the fuck time it is, but some internal clock is telling him it’s been at least a day.

If he’s been here this long, he’s probably going to be here longer. Maybe he can make a really, really big sand castle. Who knows, right? The future is full of possibilities.

x

It doesn't work.

And everyone's cursing under their breath as they leave the workroom, either upset because Joe is gone or upset because people who are important to them are sad or afraid because Joe's gone, or both.

Patrick and Ray are both up to their elbows in smears of wax and plant clippings and essences, exhausted from straining over a grounding mixture like this. Hours of work followed by hours of sitting on mismatched chairs and stools and staring at the chunk of stone that was once part of a pillar.

Pete’s been trying to keep himself and Patrick and Ray and Frank and Gerard calm. He tried a little with Andy, too, but Andy didn't seem to need it, and he didn’t even look at Bob twice. Bob’s easy to read; he would have let Pete know if he needed something. Gerard explained Mikey’s absence with a shrug and the word  _ sleep _ . Mostly, Pete was in the mindset that keeping himself busy would make up for being underfoot.

“Okay,” Ray says at last. 

Patrick looks up at the same time Pete does.

“You two go do something else. Find another angle, another recipe, a fucking ritual, whatever you pick is more than nothing. Send me Bob and Frank, and we’ll run this one again. Frank gets crazy ideas, and Bob can get super nitpicky when I want him to be. We’ll be fine.” He’s talking to himself at this point.

x

Joe watches the full sunset this time and is amazed at how quickly it passes by. Today, the clouds dissipate into streaks of pink against the brightness of the sun before it goes into a deeper gray.

x

Patrick has tried so many things—even the things that will cancel each other out at this point. The second plan is with sachets, and those are taken to Pete and Joe’s place so they don’t disturb the Lone Doe Pillar or the new and improved pillar that’s still in progress. Ray keeps telling him that teaming up with Bob was a decision that’s getting him further into the guts and weave of the recipe than before; they’d thought that he was normal, at first, but now Patrick isn’t so sure.

The third thing he tries is just a straight up potion-soaked cedar cube, which doesn’t work any better.

By now, it’s noon. Patrick has nothing left that he can do, but he doesn’t want to swoop in and discuss the black book with Ray, because honestly, he’s not cut out for those recipes. He’s a hedgewitch, not one of the more powerful all-purpose witches, like Ray.

He’s still distracted when Gerard and Andy finally convince him to just “sit in this chair, okay? Everybody’s working, no one but us knows that he’s gone, which means no outsiders can hex him out forever. Rest, before you’re no help.” Pete’s already asleep in the other chair.

He doesn’t mean to, but he drifts. Drowsily, he decides that he has enough grounding and dream preventing and aura magnets on his hands and his clothes that he’ll be fine.

x

“Your good judgement is failing you, dude,” someone says from behind him.

Patrick almost falls over himself running at Joe, punching his arm, and hugging him hard. “You fucker,” he says, relieved, into Joe’s shoulder. His exhaustion comes back full force now.

“I made a hoodie nest, but I can’t offer you food. Aw, dude, you smell like oranges, what the hell.” 

Patrick hums in agreement.

“Patrick? Come over here, okay? Let’s get you a nap before you start snoozing.”

“Mmkay.”

x

Pete wakes up and stretches, which pops basically his whole spine. His arm is on pins and needles because of the way he curled in on himself, but it’s fine. He wants coffee. He should probably get some for Patrick, too, because he’s totally running himself ragged trying to bring Joe home. He looks to Patrick’s chair.

x

Mikey’s trying really hard to stay awake. He’s in here trying to call all of Gerard’s afternoon appointments and let them know that something came up, there’s a family emergency, and they’ll be up and running again in two days, sorry for the inconvenience. He’s just gotten through the second-to-last call when blind panic blows through him.

He’s all the way fucking awake now, a hard focus of  _ SHIT _ running through his head. It’s Pete, he can just tell. He can always tell.

He does the last call in a rush, one arm in his jacket and digging for the keys in his pocket. He crosses his fingers against any of the people looking for Joe getting Fitzgerald poisoning again while he’s making his way over to Ray’s place.

When he gets there, Pete is sitting in a corner, back to the wall and knees up to his chest. He looks very small. He’s cloudy, sickly yellow-orange and teal, angry and worried and disappointed. Mikey can’t stop himself from reaching out to set his hand on Pete’s arm.

“Hey,” he says weakly.

Pete won’t meet his eyes. “He went, too—Patrick, he was stressed and then actually listened to your brother and Andy when they told him to rest and,” his laugh is more of a bark. “And he listened. He listened and now he’s.” The words come out in a jumble.

x

Joe’s not trying to watch Patrick sleep. In fact, he’s trying to sleep, too. It’s just not working until Patrick bumps his leg with one foot and pats the space beside him. 

x

Mikey sits next to him and closes his eyes.

“Don’t you go and do it too,” Pete demands seriously. 

“I won’t.”

“Promise.”

Mikey looks at him. “...I promise.”

Pete is a dark blue that’s sort of electric. It’s layered above everything else, but not blocking out the other colors. He opens both eyes wide, but there’s nobody here but Mikey. His breath pauses. He looks down at himself.

“What?”

Blue, dark blue.

“Mikey?”

“Blue,” he says stupidly

“What?” Pete says again.

There’s a thump as Patrick and Joe tumble out of the chair Patrick fell asleep in. 

Frank comes in with Ray at his heels. “What’s going on?”

“ _ Joe _ ,” Ray squawks.

Pete hurls himself at the people heaped on the floor. Patrick and Joe, Mikey notes, are blue, too, but it’s a different shade than his and Pete’s blue. When they get up for Bob to check them over and make sure they’re alright, Pete comes back over to Mikey. On impulse, Mikey grabs his hand and wills him to see the blue on Joe and Patrick. 

“I get it.”

Mikey tugs on his hand so Pete turns back toward him.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> im a fucking sucker for pete/mikey the same way im a sucker for dogs, true story.


End file.
